(no subject)

[princeinexile]

They returned to the same. old. grind. The same old arguement. The same old tea.

Until the the paper fluttered down while his uncle was overjoyed and he was not; what did he care if the fat man got a damn tea shop? What the hell was a tea shop to the fate of his nephew, his nation? Where was his loyalty? To his people, his kin?

The seed of bitterness has found root, spread, choking out love and affection and gratitude. Every step forward Iroh took into becoming 'Mushi', Zuko resented. Every day he got more comfortable, Zuko scratched at the rough cloth he wore. Every time he slept in their tiny rooom, smelling the stink of the filth sluicing past the window in the lower ring, Zuko felt loathing; for himself, for this dirty, filthy place, for his uncle.

***

The bison was going to be his. He danced over rooftops, flirted with death by Dai Li, but he was going to find it. IT didn't take much.

Dai Li, he found, were terribly easy to take one on one. It was when they worked in bloody packs they were most dangerous. But once you had the drop on them, they sang like nightengales. It's the only reason Zuko didn't cut the simpering pissant's throat, really.

***

His uncle is shouting. He has never raised his voice-- not like this-- to Zuko.

I'm begging you, Prince Zuko! Now is the time to look inward, and begin asking yourself the big question! Who are you? And what do you want?

And then there was the clatter of a mask, the rattle of fallen swords, and silence.

***

He said to let it go. He said, to go forward. Find yourself.

But what was he? He pondered these things all the way back to their time apartment as they slipped (a man of Iroh's size should not be so stealthy, but--- somehow, someway, he was) in unseen.

Who am I? The question had no answer. If he was not Zuko, Son of Fire Lord Ozai, Princess Ursa, who was he? If he was not Li, tea-shop boy, lonely and maimed, who was he? If he was not the Blue Spirit, silent and responsible to no cause and no banner, who was he?

He was (not) a Prince. He was (not) a Firebender. He was (not) the son of Ursa and Ozai.

He was.

He was falling.

And he did not know why.

***

A fever of spiritual nature, said his uncle's soft voice, as he was given water. The best thing to do was sweat it out. When it was over, this -- sacred metamorphsis of the soul would reveal his inner beauty. The truth of the self.

But.

What if these was no self?

Who... was he?

***

He dreams of serpants, two fold. Of kings and crows. Of Avatars. Of all the things he has seen, of spirits that speak with his uncle's voice, his sister's. He sees his mother again -- lost beyond his reach... Everything was out of reach, but she was the first to go, the first thing he lost and could not replace.

The dreams turn to places unreal; Wolf-father Wells -- merely an illusion? The diseased creation of the mind that knew he had no father? Was Milliways just that, a place he went in his mind? Is that why he could speak with his enemies there without fear? Have the Avatar ask for his friendship, again and again (he bore the Airbender's arrow! oh Spirits, get it off, get it off!) Is that why he had Stephanie, who died a hero covered in scars? (He had named them all, made love knowing every hurt she'd endured.) Had he apprenticed to Hephaestos, or was it really Huang down the road from the teashop who taught him to smelt steel and hammer iron (The forges smelt like home, felt like home)?

Had he imagined the strength, the speed, the gifts of the wolf, even as he fought to dominate it?

Comments

[comm-npc.livejournal.com]

Who can really say what is imagination and what is real? Where does one draw the line, especially here in the realm that's neither dream nor reality, but something both and neither.

The wolf appears to sleep under a willow tree so tall the top seems to disappear into the night sky above. What moonlight filters through the branches is white and cold, making dark hair shine grey.

A yellow eye slits open, and a fang glints white as a lip curls back.

Zuko.

[princeinexile]

Zuko knees among the grass; his garb is black and blue -- the Blue Spirit is the kin to the wolf. The Prince of the Fire Nation, the poor Earth peasant... these are not kin. One is a dominator, the other is a submissive. The Blue Spirit...

The Blue Spirit is free.

[comm-npc.livejournal.com]

Never sleeping, sometimes dormant, the wolf regards the Blue Spirit with head tilted before rising onto all fours, never once faltering in gaze.

Do you still fight?

[princeinexile]

"I..."

Does he? Let it go. The mask is wet; didn't he toss it away? He brings it down from his face, blinking-- uncertain.

"I have to fight."

Doesn't he?

[comm-npc.livejournal.com]

There's no humanity in the face of the big black wolf, no anthropomorphism, yet somehow that face manages to look disappointed. Or maybe it's a tirck of the light, and the muzzle is impassive as the sky.

Do you? What are you fighting?

[princeinexile]

"...what aren't I fighting?"

There is nothing that isn't battle and struggle; working as a peasant is a fight against his pride. Fulfilling his duty is a battle against the world. Listening to his uncle wars against his loyalty to his father's words.

"Everything is fighting."

He doesn't know, honestly. It's all blurred into one long, tiresome combat.

[comm-npc.livejournal.com]

Everything.

Large paws pad softly as the animal circles the boy - for a boy he still is - wearily.

You fight everything without asking whether you should. You scrap, but you do not hunt. But a cub, still, little prince.

[princeinexile]

What do you want? rings Iroh's voice.

"I--"

have no answer

"--have to. I do what's-- been asked of me."

[comm-npc.livejournal.com]

A nose leans in, and sniffs contemptuously for a second, before the circling continues.

You fight when you're told, without instinct. You hunt what you're set for, without hunger. You'll never be a wolf while to take orders from men. You're domesticated, little cub. You're a

dog

.

[princeinexile]

Somehow, that's an insult and he doesn't even know why.

"I--" have to. There's no want to it, not really. He wants the result, but not the hunt itself. He wants his father's regard returned to him. "--am not a dog."

Isn't he?

[comm-npc.livejournal.com]

You're no wolf.

Round and round the beast paces, pawprints in the soft soil merging into each other as a rut begins to form.

You fight what you are, what's in your blood, and you'll never be complete as long as you forget who you are.

The wolf's voice is clearer now, and decidedly female.

[princeinexile]

Never forget who you are.

The flinch is obvious; he's up, crouching, backed up--

on the run again.

"It's not that simple."

[comm-npc.livejournal.com]

Make it that simple.

She snarls at him, seeming for a second to be as much a bear as a wolf.

Accept the gift the spirits have given you. Don't fight yourself, little Prince. Choose your battles. Respect the pack.

[princeinexile]

"How? How do -- do these things? How do I forget what's been asked of me? Who my father is? You say I'm a dog-- won't I live like one, if I forget these things? Grubbing, dirty peasants-- living off scraps? I won't live like that! I can't!"

It is a false cover. What he screams is: I won't admit he does not care! I can't!

[comm-npc.livejournal.com]

You must be free!

She snaps back at him, head down, hackles raised.

The wolf is free, even when he runs with others. You act for yourself, not for a man. Hunt only what you need to survive. Fight only to live. Stop fighting yourself, and prove yourself worthy of my gift.

[princeinexile]

Falling backwards, he's in the grass, prone, the submissive's postion. But it's not a place he finds comfortable.

"I don't know how!" he blurts. "This is not what I was born to be!"

He is prince, he is firebender, he serves his people, he serves his father, he serves the sun -- he serves. He was born to it, in his own way.

Wasn't he?

[comm-npc.livejournal.com]

The wolf stands over him, towering, but not moving.

You were chosen for it. Stand up and prove yourself worthy.

[princeinexile]

Stand and fight.

How many times has he been asked that-- to rise and face-- face Ozai, face his fate, face-- anyone.

He shifts, onto his knees, a tremor down his arms. Stand and fight.

This is not his father.

This is now a part of him.

Isn't it?

He can't look up, but unsteadily, he gets to his feet.

...still, he has no idea what he's fighting for. Just that it was asked of him.

[comm-npc.livejournal.com]

She's not asking him to fight, though. Now she steps back, looking up at his face, assessing him.

What do you stand for?

[princeinexile]

"I'm not going to kneel for you," he says flatly, his eyes dark. "Last time someone asked-- I couldn't stand. But I won't... stay on my knees." Now, he's not bending knee to-- to this spirit-wolf. Not with as angry as he's become.

He was asked to stand. The first time he couldn't. This time, there's no -- fear, no father. He can stand.

[comm-npc.livejournal.com]

She didn't ask him to kneel, she doesn't want him to kneel.
When she tilts her head, yellow eyes glint up at him with a strange expression. Pride?

Then it's gone.

What do you stand for?

f

[princeinexile]

"Does it matter? You asked, and I was tired of the grass."

He shrugs, still sullen. "Or am I still a dog for obedience?"

[comm-npc.livejournal.com]

White teeth flash in the full moon.

You are on your feet, but you do not stand.

The wolf turns from him then, ears back, tail relaxed. He poses no threat as she pads off into the night.